


Patrick Roy Rides Again

by abstractconcept



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, Colorado Avalanche, Cross-Generation Relationship, Hockey, Humor, M/M, Magic, coach/player, rarepair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avs have one game left before they can make it to the Western Conference Finals, and Matt Duchene and Patrick Roy have switched bodies. Can Roy give them one last win, and in the body of a forward, no less?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patrick Roy Rides Again

“I really think you should put me in. Full shift. Full load, back on center. I can do it.”

Patrick’s face was grim. “It is not up to discuss.”

Matt set his fork down and took several deep breaths. “Well, I think we _should_ discuss it,” he said with as much patience as he could muster.

Patrick glanced around the restaurant, took a swig of his wine and set the glass down with such force Matt was surprised the stem didn’t break. “If this was a personal thing, fine, good. I discuss it. It is not a personal thing. It is a team thing. I am the coach. You do what I say. Period.”

Matt glowered, and Patrick glowered back. He had rarely seen those blue eyes so flinty. “This _is_ a personal thing,” Matt argued. “You need to win. And with any other guy, you’d put him in. You’d put him in there, you know it. You are wasting a valuable asset for a personal reason,” Matt said quietly. “Face it; you need me.”

Patrick pointed a finger in his face. “I would _not,_ ” he snarled. “I would _not_ put any player in with your injury at your point in the recovery. You say that, you don’t know me very well.”

“You just don’t want to risk me,” Matt hissed.

“Fucking right I don’t. I would not ever do anything to risk a player of your calibre. That would be _stupid_ , and it would be _impulsive_ and it would be _goddamn irresponsible_. Kind of like how you are act right now.” Patrick took another swig of wine as Matt’s jaw dropped. The man sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, his expression arrogant and immovable.

Matty stood up, throwing his napkin on the table. “I am the _best player you’ve got,_ ” he spat.

“Yes, that is my point,” Patrick agreed implacably.

Matt turned on his heel and stomped—well, _limped_ —away. Heads turned all over. People knew who they were, and they knew what was going on, that was a fact. He flushed as he threw open the front doors and took the front steps two at a time.

The temperature had dropped, thunderclouds rolling over the metro area. Matty could hear ominous mutterings from the clouds, and he turned his collar up. Patrick had the car keys, but there was a light rail stop not too far away and it would take him almost all the way home. Besides, he could use the walk. Maybe he could work off some of his anger. His knee twinged as he marched along, so he slowed up, wincing and glancing around, hoping no one noticed.

Unfortunately, before he’d gone very far, the sky opened up and let loose a barrage of sleet, which quickly turned to hail, the thunder still strangely distant, growling as if it disapproved of something. Matt quickly backed up against a building and looked around for shelter. He spotted an awning nearby and he scuttled over and ducked under it.

He took out his phone and hesitated. Who should he call? Definitely not Patrick. One of the guys? He hated to make their fight public, but he didn’t trust his ability to keep his mouth shut, not when he was this angry. He really wanted to let off some steam about the whole thing. On the other hand, what would he say? Patrick was being a dick and had called him a valuable player? Well, all right, a stupid, impetuous, irresponsible valuable player, but still, Matty didn’t wasn’t quite sure any of the guys would take his side. They wanted him benched until he was well. Fuck it, he’d just call a cab. He finally went to press a button only to get the message that his phone needed to be charged.

“God _damn_ it!” he snarled. He shoved the thing back in his coat pocket, fuming. Even his anger wasn’t enough to keep him warm in the cold weather, though. An icy gust of wind curled around him, sticking chilly fingers down the back of his collar. He looked around; a nearby shop that still had an ‘open’ sign stuck in the window. He went over and tentatively tried the door, sure there was a mistake. But no, the door opened easily. It was dim inside, lit by a few candles.

He took a few steps inside, looking around. There were rows of shelves reaching back into the dark recesses of the store. There were a lot of goofy-looking things on display—crystal balls and knives and ornate jewelry. It was dusty, dim, and apparently vacant. Taken in conjunction with the storm outside, the whole place was kind of creepy.

Matt shook off a shiver and peered into the darkness, wondering where the owner was. He slowly turned in a circle, taking in his surroundings.

A throat cleared, and Matty suddenly realized there had been an old woman standing behind the counter the whole time, watching him, still and silent. He jumped about a foot. “Oh!” He tried to laugh, but it came out sounding weird. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

The old woman watched him with pale eyes. “If you thought I’d be an easy mark, you’d be wrong,” she said. She gestured, and Matt realized she was holding a gun.

He gasped, holding his hands up. “No, it’s okay,” he babbled. “I wasn’t going to hurt anything. I’m not a burglar or anything, I’m just a hockey player.”

“What are you doing in here so late?”

“The sign said you were open!”

“Yeah, so? You’re not one of our regulars. What do you want?”

“I—just wanted to use your phone.”

Thunder finally arrived in force, a deep, hollow boom that rattled the windows, and this time they both startled. The rain began to splatter so hard against the windows that Matt felt like he was going through a carwash.

The old woman lowered the gun with a shrug. “You can’t blame me for being a bit jumpy,” she said. “There’s something in the air. Besides, we don’t usually get many people in this late.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, lowering his hands. He let out a long breath and tried to arrange a non-threatening smile on his face. “What, uh, what kinds of things do you sell?”

She hobbled around the counter. “Oh, you know. Various items for practitioners of the craft.”

Matt looked around. The place was dusty and didn’t look like it did a lot of business. It was downright sinister, this musty old place lit by candles. He wondered if the power was out.

“What is it you were wanting?” the woman asked.

“I just wanted to borrow your phone.”

“Paying customers only,” she said, setting her jaw and eyeing him sternly.

“Oh, for—” Matt heaved a sigh. He did a quick turn and reached out to grab the first thing he saw—a statue of a dragon the size of a cat—but something made him hesitate. The glass eyes actually seemed to be looking at him. His nerves were still jangling from the clap of thunder. The carving was so detailed that he could swear he could see the scales shift just a little, as if the dragon had drawn a breath. Matt shivered hard. He looked back at the woman.

“You couldn’t afford him anyway,” she told him in a dry voice.

Matt opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. Maybe she was a loon, but she was a loon with a gun. He wouldn’t argue the point. “All right. Fine. You choose, how’s that? Get me a top hat I can take a rabbit out of, or a—a deck of cards or something.”

The woman appraised him with her eerie blue eyes. “Choose for you, hmm?” She circled him, looking him up and down. “What is it you need?”

“Right now? A ride home,” Matty told her in exasperation.

She suddenly reached out and jabbed his leg with a finger as hard and knobby as a twisted tree branch. “What about that?”

Matt winced. “What, my knee?” he said, wondering how she spotted it. “It’s nothing. Happened a few weeks ago. It’s almost healed now—despite what some people might say,” he added under his breath.

She looked at him sharply. “Mmm? What people?” she asked, going back behind the counter.

Matt shrugged uncomfortably. Well, he had wanted to vent, hadn’t he? And she was a neutral third party, unlikely to take Patrick’s side just because he was the coach. “Just—I know my own body, all right? And some people think they know better.” He blew out a long breath, the anger beginning to bubble up. “It’s just—game seven, okay? It’s a big game. We have to give it everything we’ve got. This is what we’ve worked for all year. It’s the Cup, okay? It’s kind of a big deal. I’m willing to give it everything I’ve got, and I mean everything. This is what we play for,” he told her. “This is my _job_. Hell, it’s more than a job. It’s a way of life. It’s—it’s _everything_ to me, okay? And you have to be willing to give it one hundred percent, and I am! And he doesn’t get it. I mean, can’t he understand what an opportunity this is? Doesn’t he get that this is the only way? Can’t he see that we’ll _lose?_ I know I can do it. I know I can help. I mean, it’ll hurt, sure, but it would be for the team, for the Cup. It would be worth it.”

The woman nodded slowly.

Matt felt encouraged by this. “Why can’t he just see it from my point of view?”

The woman smiled, still nodding. In the candlelight, the grin seemed twisted, ghoulish. “Oh, yes, oh, yes,” she muttered to herself. She went over to a row of jars behind the counter and began pulling them down. She got out a spoon and began scooping tiny spoonfuls out into a little tin. She got out a second tin and began filling that with a different selection of what looked like dried leaves.

Matt leaned forward, trying to figure out what she was doing. “Is that tobacco? I, uh, don’t smoke.”

She snorted. “Just herbs, boy.” She turned around and set the little tin in front of him. “Have him steep them in hot water for three to five minutes before drinking. You, you take _these,_ you see, the red tin? You take those yourself. Before bed. Ease your leg pain.”

“Oh,” Matt said as she handed him the tins. Apparently it was just tea. “Okay. How much?”

“One hundred.”

“ _Dollars?_ You’re crazy.” Matt pushed the tins back at her.

She glared. “You said choose. I chose.”

“A hundred dollars for a couple of scoops of tea?”

“For specially selected ingredients designed to bring about the change you seek.” She smiled again.

“What change did I say I was seeking?”

“You wished him to change his mind.”

“For a hundred dollars, that tea better change my whole life,” Matty grumbled, not really listening. He dug out his wallet. “Look, call me a cab, okay? I’ll take the tea. I don’t care. Whatever.” He was ready for the day to be over.

The woman nodded.

 

oOoOoOo

Patrick was waiting for him at home, looking really worried. “Look, I am sorry about earlier,” the man said. Matt allowed himself to be pulled into a hug.

“Me, too.”

Patrick pulled away a little and cupped his face. “Is this going to be a problem for us? The separation of the team from our feeling?” He looked really concerned. “Because I am your coach and if I do not have your respect, I cannot do my job.”

Matt heaved a sigh. “I don’t know.”

“I can have my resignation to Joe first thing in the morning.”

Matt recoiled. “You can’t do that!” Especially not now, not in the middle of the playoffs. His heart pounded wildly. Why did Patrick always have to do the most dramatic thing possible?

“It would not be something effective till the end of the season,” Patrick said.

Matt shook his head hard. “No, you can’t do that. Look, I’m sorry, all right? I don’t . . . look, I’m not the kind who would ever just roll over. Not for you, not for anyone. I promise, I would have fought any coach about this.”

Patrick’s eyes softened. “Yes, I guess you probably would.”

“No player wants to miss the playoffs.”

“This is true.”

Matt hung his head. “I let it get personal, and I shouldn’t have.” He still wasn’t sure if that was true; he still kind of hoped Patrick would step up and admit he was the one keeping Matty out for personal reasons, but the man refused to take the bait.

“It is really something we will have to work on.”

Matt sighed again. Then he smiled. “How about I make us a nice cup of tea, and we just put this aside for the night?”

“Sound good to me,” Patrick said.

It might not change anyone’s mind, but at least it would help them relax a little.

 

oOoOoOo

The next morning Matt woke up groggily. Oh, great, the tea hadn’t helped at all. In fact, he felt worse than ever. His back was sore, his knees were a bit stiff, and just, in general, he felt pretty rundown. He stretched, yawning, and rolled over and looked at—

His own face?

Matt blinked. He sat up, looking down at the person in the bed next to him. The person who _should_ be Patrick, but instead looked just like—like Matt himself. He felt a weird zing of fear shoot up his spine, and he edged backward, stumbling out of bed, still staring at the strange person asleep on his pillow. Who the fuck was that? Was he having some kind of out of body experience? No, he had a body . . .

He looked down at his own body, and something wasn’t right—something wasn’t right at all. Breathing heavily, he wheeled around and charged for the bathroom. His legs protested a little, and he was even a bit out of breath by the time he raced into the room. His groping hand found the light switch and flicked it on.

Matt stared in the mirror and screamed at the top of his lungs.

Matt heard a heavy thunk from the bedroom, but he ignored it. He screamed again. He wanted to touch his face, but was almost scared to try. That would make it too real, if he felt the same thing he was seeing.

Footsteps thundered down the hall behind him, and he spun to see himself racing toward him. The other Matt Duchene stopped short and stared.

Then _he_ screamed.

Matt joined in, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He grabbed his head with both hands, like he was afraid it would fly off. Even his hair felt weird and different.

The other Matt shoved past him and took one look in the mirror and shouted again.

But the real Matt—whatever he looked like—was literally getting tired of screaming, and a bit out of breath. He started moaning instead. “Oh, my God . . . oh my God . . . oh, my _Goddddddd_ ,” he groaned.

“Calm down. That is enough. Calm down. This yelling is not help anything.”

Hearing Patrick Roy’s strange, choppy French accent coming out of Matt Duchene’s mouth fascinated Matt enough that he stopped panicking, at least for a moment.

“Good. Better. Now. We need to think what happen,” Patrick ordered.

Matt nodded, looking hopefully down at his former body. Patrick was a good thinker. Patrick would figure something out. Patrick could fix things. Then Matt caught another look at himself in the mirror and wailed. Patrick Roy’s furry face wailed back, looking like some sort of distraught muppet.

“Stop that! Right now!” Matt rarely saw himself scowl like that outside of after a bad game. “You get grip on yourself, you hear?” Patrick-as-Matt leaned forward, gesturing with an angry finger. Patrick Roy had the panache to pull that off, but Matt Duchene didn’t. It was almost comical.

Matt must have looked unimpressed or even amused, because Patrick stopped, glanced in the mirror, and blinked in consternation. He tried pointing again, and practiced his expression in the mirror. No good, really—Matt Duchene simply did not have the gravitas to point at people that way.

Matt looked down at his own body. It was a good body—a great body in Matt’s eyes—one he liked to have sex with and cuddle with and curl up against. But it was aging and weird and uncomfortable. It had hair in places he didn’t want hair. It had fat in places he didn’t want fat. It had grey all over in places he definitely didn’t want grey. And most of all, it was tired and, just at the moment, incredibly uptight in some way that made his chest hurt just a little. He could literally feel his own blood pressure rise, and it scared him to death. Was this how Patrick always felt? Matt panicked, hyperventilated, and began to cry, little sobs that hitched and made him feel even worse.

His own face registered shock. “Stop that! What is wrong? What’s wrong with you? You got no reason to cry! Stop that right now. You are grown man and you look very undignify.” Patrick looked so affronted that Matt managed a watery smile.

“S-sorry,” he gulped. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m just—this is kind of fucking overwhelming.” He gestured wildly. “I mean—I mean, I’m kind of freaking the fuck out here, okay?” He saw himself in the mirror and forced himself not to do that. Flailing was not helping the muppet look.

“I know, I know. It is—this is—this is a hell of a thing,” Patrick admitted. He reached up at patted Matt’s shoulder. “Just stay calm, we think of something.” He pulled Matt down into a hug, and Matt leaned gratefully on his own shoulder. It was fucking creepy, but he had pretty good shoulders for leaning on.

“Maybe we should call someone,” Matt suggested in a small voice, straightening.

“Yeah? You think? Who you want to call?” Patrick arched an eyebrow. Matt didn’t even know his face did that. He tried to think.

“My parents?”

“Your _parent?_ ” Patrick repeated. “What you gonna say? They don’t even know we have sex. You want me to call them and say, ‘Hello, I got some bad news: I wake up inside Matty today, and not in usual, more enjoyable way.’ You want me to say that?”

“No, I guess not.” Matt scratched his face, and it scratched back. He blinked a little. He’d never been able to grow anything more than tatty scrub brush on his face; a full-on beard was very weird. “Maybe we should call . . . Joe?”

Patrick blinked. “ _Joe Sakic!?_ Why? He don’t know I have sex with you either.”

“No one knows we have sex!” Matt shouted. “If that’s the litmus test for telling someone so they can fix us, then we’re in fucking trouble!”

Patrick looked haughty. “Oh, yes? You want to tell Joe Sakic? You think Joe Sakic fix this? Look, I know he is your hero but I think maybe he is not qualify for this particular situation, unless you think maybe a hard slapshot upside your head might help. I mean, this thing seem a bit outside his wheelhouse.”

Matt blinked. Patrick was right. Who the fuck would be able to help them? Who even knew shit like this could happen? What were they supposed to do? “We could call a doctor?” he said, making it into a question. He knew how Patrick felt about that.

“Oh, _yes_ , that is much better idea. ‘Hello, Matt. How do you feel today? Tell me where it hurt.’ ‘Oh, I feel just fine, it is just that my extra head has a bit of an ache today. I think I have caught a real bad case of Patrick Roy. Can you get rid of it?’ What you think, they got a pill or something?”

Matt slumped against the wall. “They’d probably think we were crazy or something.”

“Exactly. And I am not entirely sure they would be wrong. This is pretty fucking crazy.” He sighed. “And I _definitely_ cannot be the one to tell people—or you cannot—because already some people thought I was a little off.”

“I need to sit down,” Matt said. He really wasn’t feeling well. He tottered back to the bedroom with Patrick at his heels, muttering in French. Matt sank down onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. Again, the beard freaked him out. He must have looked really upset because Patrick sat beside him and put an arm around him.

“Hey, it will be okay. We figure this out, I promise. Come here,” he instructed, pulling Matt down against his chest. This was more awkward than usual, but Matt felt a whole lot better with Patrick holding him. He always had a way of acting like he was totally in control, unflappable—except for his occasional temper tantrums, anyway.

“What are we going to do?” Matt asked softly. He could feel Patrick’s hand—well, his hand—smoothing his hair.

“We gonna calm down, and we gonna think about this,” Patrick said in his usual confident way, and that alone made Matt feel ten times better.

“Okay,” he agreed.

“How can this possibly happen? That is first question we need answer,” Patrick said. “We do anything different? You been feeling sick? You remember having any weird dream, anything like that?”

“Nope,” Matt replied. Patrick’s hand in his hair was making him drowsy. “We had a fight, we made up, that’s pretty much it.” He felt a strong urge to curl up in bed and go back to sleep until this went away.

“Hmph. There got to be something. You eat anything weird?”

This made Matt laugh. “What, like I’m being punished for going off my gluten-free diet or something? That’s not one of the side-effects.”

Patrick sighed. “You do anything different at bed?”

“Like accidentally wearing your boxers?” Now that he was calming down, Matt’s cynicism toward the supernatural was beginning to make him caustic. “Because everyone knows if you switch boxers you totally swap bodies.”

Patrick gave him a flick on the ear. “You are not helping. Come on! Think about it! What happen?”

Matt sat up straight in sudden shock. “IT WAS A WITCH!” he shouted.

Patrick hushed him. “ _Tabernac,_ people gonna call the cops, claim I am abusing you with hot poker, you keep yelling like that,” he complained.

Distracted, Matt leaped to his feet and began to pace. “It was a witch, Patrick! I went in this store and it was all . . . and it had all this . . . like . . . _stuff,_ you know, and there were candles and crystal balls and she gave me some tea to give to you and we drank the tea and we switched bodies and she must have put some kind of curse on the tea! That’s what happened! Oh, man, why didn’t I realize it sooner?” He was waving his arms around like crazy, but he was too worked up to care whether he looked like a muppet.

Patrick was still sitting on the bed in his briefs, jaw sagging. “What the hell you talking about? What witch?”

“The witch! I met her last night after we had that fight. I was walking and it started to rain and I went into this weird shop—and she sold me some stuff she said was tea.”

“Jesus Christ! Why you buy things from witches? Why you give me stuff a witch give you? You crazy?”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe in shit like witches.”

Patrick glared. “Oh! I see! Yeah, obviously there are no such thing as witches.”

Matt shuffled his feet, chagrined. “Okay, I guess that was kind of a dumb thing to say, considering. But, I mean, this is fucking _crazy_. I’m sure if you could—like—if this stuff could happen—I mean, we’d hear about it all the time, wouldn’t we?”

Patrick waved a hand like he was wiping away that particular concern. “Let us concentrate on fixing this,” he said. “You met a witch in a shop. Where? What did she say? Can you take me to her?”

Matt lit up. “Yeah! Yes! That’s a good idea! Yeah, let’s go and—” he ran and grabbed some pants out of the bureau and discovered they were much too short—and a bit too tight. “Uh—oh, yeah. Okay. Um…pants?” Patrick pointed to the right drawer.

The rest of the trip went pretty much the same way. Matt decided it was like how you could make one stair only a fraction of an inch different than the rest and everybody would trip on it. He grabbed the wrong jacket. He got in the passenger’s seat because of the knee thing, and then realized that was now Patrick’s knee and therefore Patrick shouldn’t drive. So then he got out and got into the driver’s seat and nearly sprained something because it was his car, but he forgot to push the seat back.

Patrick, meanwhile, was moving more deliberately, taking care, and looking amazed at everything. “You know, maybe I was wrong about your knee,” he said as they drove downtown. “It don’t feel too bad at all, considering.”

“That was another thing!” Matt shouted. “She gave me tea for that, too!”

“Don’t do that,” Patrick begged.

“What?”

“Bounce around and look like that. Bug eyes and that. You make me look . . . goofy.”

“I don’t look goofy!” Matt shot back, nettled.

“No, but I do. Maybe you don’t look bad with your own face, but with mine, it don’t work so good.”

“Huh,” was all Matt could think to respond.

They couldn’t find anything close to the shop, so they ended up having to park a few blocks away. Patrick was out of the car like a shot while Matt was still wriggling out of his seatbelt and lumbering out of his seat. Patrick was half a block ahead while Matt jogged behind. When he reached the door of the shop, Patrick waited impatiently, jiggling his foot and looking pissy.

Some kid ran up and said something to him. Matt gulped. He hoped Patrick wasn’t about to go off on a fan. Luckily, Patrick got it together, smiled at the kid, and shook his hand. Matt made it up to them, huffing, just as Patrick signed something and handed it to the boy.

“Wow, that’s not how I pictured your signature at all,” the kid exclaimed.

Patrick and Matt shared a panicked look. “I . . . am trying out something new,” Patrick said. “Styling it after my hero,” he added, jerking a thumb at Matt. “You want his autograph, too?” Matt panicked for a moment. Could he ape Patrick’s signature?

But the kid shook his head. “No, thanks.”

After the kid wandered off, Matt and Patrick shared a look of outrage, and then started to laugh. “Do I really look like this when I am angry?” Patrick asked, cupping his own face. “Mon dieu, it is dire.”

Matt shrugged. “I’m not exactly a supermodel myself.” Indignation was not his best look, that was for sure. He let out a long breath. “Man, it’s hard to keep up with you. I thought I’d have a heart attack, running to keep up. How do you do it?”

Patrick frowned. “I am in very good shape for my age!”

Matt opened and shut his mouth. The truth was, he really did not feel that great, and he really wanted Patrick to get himself checked out, but this was not the time to have an argument over it. “Ready to go in?”

Patrick sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked like he was ready for a face off. He slammed the door open and marched inside.

Matt followed meekly. The same old woman was behind the register, reading a book. “No exchanges, no returns,” she said without looking up.

Matt stared. The dragon on the counter—he could swear it was the same dragon—was now lying on its stomach, its eyes closed. He kept his eyes fixed on it, but he never saw it move.

Patrick slammed his hands down on the counter. “I think exchange was already done,” he snapped. “That is what I got a complaint about.”

She looked at him over the top of her book, and slowly smiled. “Hot damn, that one worked, did it? Wasn’t sure it would. Never tried that one before.”

“Look,” Patrick said, sticking a finger in her face. “You are gonna change us back.” Then he seemed to think better of this, realizing he was arguing with a person who had supernatural powers. “Please,” he added.

She shrugged. “I could do it, but it would take me awhile.”

“How long?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“ _Shit_.”

She gave another shrug and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’ll wear off anyway, you wait long enough,” she informed them.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Matt said. He’d been terrified he’d be stuck like this forever. “How long will _that_ take?”

Her smile was catlike and not at all comforting. “About twenty-four hours,” she said with a cackle.

 _Twenty-four hours._ Matt and Patrick looked at each other, eyes widening in realization. Patrick turned back to the woman, his jaw set. “Listen, you—” Patrick was about to blow his top, but Matt grabbed his arm. The dragon on the counter was unchanged—except for one angry red eye, which was glaring at Matt.

“Okay! Thank you for your time!” Matt said brightly. “Guess we’ll just be going now!” He yanked Patrick’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Patrick was strong and stubborn and dug his heels in. Matt realized he couldn’t budge him. “We are not finish here!”

Matt leaned in close, nose-to-nose with the man. “Look, right now we actually have it pretty good,” he snarled in a low voice. “You want her to turn us into toads?”

Patrick huffed, but let Matt drag him outside. “Game seven is _tonight!_ ” the man erupted when they were back on the sidewalk. “What are we gonna do?”

Matt sighed. “Look, you weren’t going to let me play anyway. So you’ll just let me—or I’ll just let you—be behind the bench. With me. You know?”

Patrick looked up at him. Or, at least, he looked up. He seemed to be looking straight through Matt, though, his hazel eyes unfocused. “No, I have a better idea,” he said.

Matt blinked a little. It was starting to drizzle again. “What’s that?”

“I’m gonna play.”

 

oOoOoOo

“Oh, like _hell_ ,” Matt told him on the drive home, again and again. “Like _hell_ I’m going to let you play. You wouldn’t let _me_ play. And whose body would get damaged if you made it worse, huh?”

“You did not give two shit about that yesterday.”

“Well, I do now! What happens if you do fuck me up?”

Patrick didn’t answer. He just let Matt talk himself out.

“I mean, you weren’t even a forward. You haven’t played for real in years. What if you miscalculate and make a bad turnover? And I can say from experience that it’s no picnic, walking around in someone else’s body. I keep bumping things and underestimating how much room I take up and—”

“I haven’t,” Patrick muttered.

“And how am I supposed to coach when you’re on the ice? How can I pull that off with no coaching experience?” Matt went on, clutching the steering wheel, oblivious to how he’d already switched from _no_ to _if_ to _when_. “I don’t know jack shit about coaching. I’m not going to remember to do half the stuff you do by rote. And I don’t even _sound_ like you,” he added anxiously.

“So week keep the talk to a minimum,” Patrick replied.

“You’re _crazy!_ That’s _crazy!_ Fuck—this—fucking—crazy—fucking—thing!” Matt shouted, slamming his fist on the steering wheel.

“See, you sound just like me already,” Patrick said calmly. “I can imitate you pretty good too I bet: _Whatta game! God bless Mom, Canada, and the best hockey player ever, Sid Crosby. Golly! I am just a good old Ontario boy. Brad Paisley’s new album is gonna be awesome! You betcha!”_

“I do _not_ sound like that,” Matt huffed. He had never once in his life said _golly;_ he wasn’t Beaver Cleaver, for fuck’s sake, even if he did watch the swearing in public.

Patrick shrugged. “If I say ‘Sidney Crosby’ enough no one will even guess there is something different.”

Matt seethed. “You are out of your fucking head.”

“That is true.” Patrick seemed almost serene, unmoved by Matt’s cogent arguments.

Matt ground his teeth. “You are going to do this, aren’t you,” he said flatly. “No matter what I say. You are going to go ahead and do exactly what you feel like doing, just like you always do. You are so—so high-handed, and so bossy, and so fucking _arrogant,_ ” he snarled.

Patrick was quiet for a long time. “Yes. I am going to do this anyway. Matty, this is game seven. We got to win this game.”

Matt shook his head. “You’re just like Sacco,” he said bitterly. He’d spent years being Sacco’s whipping boy, letting the man grind down his confidence. He’d struggled for so long to get out from under that shadow, to prove himself, and now here Patrick was again, acting like Matt shouldn’t have a say in anything.

“I’m not,” Patrick assured him. “I want this for both of us. You would have played, if you could. I know if we discuss this long enough, you will come around and know it is the only way.”

Matt pulled into the driveway. Patrick was just going to do it. He was going to go ahead and do it no matter _what_ Matt said. When Patrick opened his door and got out, Matt didn’t follow.

“You are not gonna sit there and sulk, are you?” the man asked with a sigh, leaning in the window.

Matt refused to look at him, staring straight ahead. “No,” he replied mulishly.

Patrick straightened, rolling his eyes. “No? Then what you gonna do?”

Matt threw the car into reverse. “If you’re gonna do whatever you want with _my_ body,” he said, turning his head to look Patrick straight in the eye, “then I’m gonna do whatever _I_ like with _yours._ ”

He backed out of the driveway, tires squealing, and drove away, watching with satisfaction in the rearview mirror as Patrick sputtered in helpless fury.

 

oOoOoOo

Matt returned home a few hours later. He found Patrick at the kitchen table, scribbling frantically. Matt threw a grocery bag down on the table.

“What is that?” Patrick said, barely looking up.

“Your new blood pressure medication,” Matt told him. “You’re also going on a diet, and if your cholesterol isn’t under control in two months, you’ll be on meds for that, too. You’re welcome.”

“What?” Patrick looked up in outrage. “ _Sacrament!_ What you do to my face!?”

“I removed all traces of elderly hedgehog from it, that’s what,” Matt told him sourly.

“And what is this about medication?” Patrick picked up the paper bag and prodded at the container inside, looking furious.

“You got a physical today,” Matt told him. “Full fucking tune-up and oil change. Surprise, surprise, you are in fucking terrible shape. Your blood pressure is through the _roof!_ ”

“Right now it is!” Patrick agreed angrily.

“You are going to start taking better care of yourself, mister!” Matt would see to that, whatever body he got stuck in.

Patrick threw up his hands and began ranting in French. “I cannot believe you,” he said when he seemed to have run out of foreign swear words. “This day, of all days? You do not think I have enough on my plate already?!”

“You have too much on your plate all the time, hence the new diet,” Matt told him implacably. He began putting the groceries away—healthy greens and lean proteins.

Patrick groaned.

Matt looked at the papers spread all over the table. “What’s all that stuff?”

“These are your instruction for tonight. Because I am not a total asshole, I thought I would help you so you would not look like a useless lump of shit behind the bench.”

“Oh.” Matt began going through the papers. “…Thanks, Patty,” he said meekly. “This is going to be helpful.”

Patrick smiled a wry little smile. “I guess we both try to look out for each other in our own way.”

“What about you?” Matt said. “Have you done anything to, uh, prepare?”

“A little,” Patrick told him. “Yoga, some practice, get used to the body. But I am feel pretty good and I wanted to be rested for tonight. The knee is much better than I had thought.”

Matt stared at him. He was sitting there in an old sloppy sweatshirt, his hair a mess. And yet, somehow, he looked good. He looked . . . confident. There was some unnameable difference about the vibe he was giving off. Matt had never looked like that before when he looked in the mirror. Even in someone else’s body, there was some mystique, some aura that had _Patrick Roy_ written all over it. Matty couldn’t help but smile. “So . . . what? You’re just going to hop on the ice in game seven, learn how to play center, score us a few goals and win the game, just like that?”

Patrick shrugged. “Why not?” Matt’s jaw dropped. “I am in a body that is in pretty good shape. And,” he added, leaning forward and giving Matty a wink, “after all, I _am_ Patrick fucking Roy. We will just see what I can do.”

 

oOoOoOo

Matt tried to keep calm. After all, he didn’t want to give Patrick a heart attack, and hey, that could happen. The game was about to start.

He absolutely could not wait for the night to be over so they could go back to the way things were. There were some benefits, like the way even reporters seemed slightly in awe of him, and how everyone jumped when he said go, but the whole thing was just too weird for Matt. The idea of wearing his boyfriend’s body was just plain freaky. Everyone kept asking him for advice on stuff, like he knew everything, and it was really stressing him out. Hell, even getting his hair right was a major production. Who knew two people’s hair could be so different? When he’d come out of the bathroom after the first try, Patrick had laughed at him until he went back in and washed the gel out.

Everything was so strange. He got phone call after phone call, demands and questions. Everyone wanted some of his time. And that was just the intangible stuff! The actual, tangible changes . . . like peeing! Matt had blushed the entire time! What was wrong with him? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t held Patrick Roy’s penis in his very own hand before, but somehow this was like the first time all over again, and it made him all stupid with giggles, sort of embarrassed. He’d done the whole thing as quickly as possible and resolved never to think of it again.

Patrick, on the other hand, had gone to use the bathroom and hadn’t come until almost half an hour later, looking incredibly smug about something. This made Matty worry a little, but they didn’t really have time to dwell—game seven was on them.

Now, standing in the tunnel, clutching a sweaty handful of notes about things that Patrick Roy would _never, ever say_ (‘Gee, Sidney Crosby is _so cool_ ’ was underlined twice) and notes about things he _definitely needed_ to be able to do (Matt had spent half the afternoon practicing his whistle) Matt was sick with worry. How could they possibly pull this off?

The guys were lined up to go out on the ice. Patrick had skated a bit earlier and said he felt great. He hadn’t looked too bad, actually. Matt wondered if he’d retain muscle memory, at least. After all, his body or Matt’s, he’d had years of experience with hockey. It would just be . . . slightly different, that was all. Matt sidled over to him.

“You sure you’re ready?” he asked in an undertone.

Patrick only nodded. His manner of speech was just too recognizable, no matter what body he was in, so they’d agreed to say as little as possible. With Matt, at least, he only had to shout a little, here and there, and as long as he kept it short, he should be okay. They’d gone to the extra mile of telling the assistant coaches that he had a slight case of laryngitis, which would hopefully be taken as an explanation of why he might sound odd—and also prod them to step up and take charge. Matt would need all the help he could get.

Matt kept shuffling through his notes, trying to remember his role. To his irritation, he had to hold them out at arm’s length and squint a little. Was there anything that aging didn’t fuck up? He shook his head. He had to stay focused. He could not allow himself to get carried away by anything that happened on the ice. He just had to stay behind the bench, say the right things—and trust his team.

Matt heard the announcer roar, “Your COLORADO AVALANCHE!” and the guys began streaming out. He patted Patrick’s helmet.

“Good luck,” he muttered. He followed shortly.

Wow, everything looked so different from the bench. Part of it was just because he was taller. That made him feel . . . good. For some reason he really liked the added few inches, even though he tended to knock his shins into things. He felt, like, almost more masculine or some shit. It was weird, but kind of cool. He looked up at the massive jumbotron,

 _Here we go_ , he thought.

One way or another, there would never be another night like tonight.

 

oOoOoOo

“No-NO- _NOOO_ KEEP YOUR HEAD UP!” Matt screamed. He quickly clapped his hand to his mouth, hoping no one noticed.

“It’s okay. Everyone knows you’re hard on him because he’s got so much potential,” Tim said, patting Matt on the shoulder.

Matt gulped and nodded. He was ready to die. Watching Patrick out there was like watching a puppet version of Matt flop all over the place. He was continually out of position and seemed to have no awareness that six other guys on the ice would like to take his head clean off—or twelve, if you counted the time he made that last turnover. Matt had never realized how nerve-wracking it could be to watch someone else make a stupid play when he couldn’t do anything about it. Everyone looked to him, and he couldn’t _do_ anything except bark orders and hope they were obeyed.

Even as Matt watched, literally chewing his nails, Patrick went to make a pass to O’Reilly and instead sent it right to Seabrook’s welcoming stick. “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Matt roared. No one batted an eye. Vintage Roy, their faces said.

In the blink of an eye, Toews went top-shelf.

Matt whistled the line change and looked at Patrick in apoplectic fury. His own face looked back at him, stubbornly angry. “Why you use such a short, shit stick?” Patrick growled. “Fuck this stick, can’t do shit with it.” Matt remembered how he’d always used ridiculously oversized equipment, the biggest he could get away with. Great for a goalie, not for a center.

Matt seriously considered throttling him, regardless of the consequences.

“We’re only down one. We’ll get it back,” Gabe said confidently. He tapped Patrick on the butt with the flat of his stick, and Patrick finally remembered himself and sat down.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” Ginner asked. “Are you still hurting real bad or some shit? Cause you are all the fuck over the place. Get your head in the game, man!” The big left wing shook his head in amazement.

Patrick looked like he might erupt. “I have got it under control,” he snapped. “Would be a big help if you would fucking step it up, too. We need everyone for this.”

Everyone looked surprised. Matt Duchene didn’t snap at teammates. Patrick Roy, though, Matt remembered, would not hesitate to tell his team off when it needed a verbal spanking. Still, it was _his_ reputation, and things were getting uncomfortable.

When the next shift came, Matty thought about letting him ride the bench. This was game seven. They couldn’t have these kinds of screw ups.

Patrick craned his head around and nailed him with eyes full of challenge. He’d seen himself look that way before—stubborn, self-doubting, and chomping at the bit to prove himself. For a weird moment, he felt some strange sort of pity—no, more like some kind of compassion—for the kid he’d been a year or two ago. He shook his head a little, clearing away the nostalgic cobwebs.

“Fine,” he grunted. “One more chance.”

Patrick inclined his head regally. Matt noticed Gabe Landeskog was staring at them. He gave him a scowl and the guy ducked his head.

Patrick jumped over the boards.

Matt held his breath.

There was a scrum in the corner, and Patrick came out with the puck, and then— _pow_ —he simply exploded down the ice. Matt wasn’t 100% sure, because his ears were no longer so great, but he thought he heard a sound trailing after Patrick. It sounded like _Yipeeeee!_

Patrick didn’t even get a good shot off, but Jamie McGinn was right behind him, ready to crash the net, and he got the rebound. Then Patrick, who had probably never been able to skate so fast in his life, lost an edge and crashed into the boards. Matt moaned. Patrick got up though, limping only a little, and jumped into Ginner’s arms.

The game was tied.

When Patrick came back to the bench his eyes were wild and he seemed to be almost vibrating with excitement. He leapt over the boards and grabbed Matt’s jacket and tugged him forward. Matt obligingly leaned down. “I CAN _FLY!_ ” the man said in such a loud whisper that Matt was sure half the stands heard it. He gave Matt a manic smile and plunked himself down on the bench.

Matt clapped his hand to his face.

 

oOoOoOo

By the second intermission the score was still 1-1. Patrick had settled down a bit as far as stupid defensive mistakes, but he was still a heart attack waiting to happen. He was going into the corners as hard as he could and wasn’t afraid to battle anyone. It was ridiculous! It wasn’t like he didn’t know better!

The next time Patrick was on the bench, Matt leaned down behind him and hissed, “ _What do you think you’re doing?_ You’re always telling me not to do that! Knock it off!”

Patrick looked up at him apologetically. “I think maybe I was wrong. About a lot of thing. The leg, it is better than I knew. And you are stronger than I imagine. This . . . is a learning experience for me.”

Matt was so surprised he didn’t know what to say, and continued to gape until Patrick’s next shift. He forgot to whistle, and didn’t remember until someone nudged him. Nate came back looking out of gas, and Matt realized he, himself had nearly given the Hawks an opportunity. He shook himself and tried to concentrate.

The whole situation was difficult. He didn’t half know what he was doing, and kept getting distracted by Patrick. The man had demanded a larger stick, and that seemed to work out a little better for him, but he kept alternating between hanging back too much in his own end, not clearing the zone, and other times thinking he was some sort of superman and screaming down the ice like an out-of-control phantom jet.

More than once Matt ended up flinching away, too scared to look.

With about a minute left, Patrick slammed into Kane, and the two of them began shoving. Matt swore. What the fuck was wrong with him? Patrick was yelling, inviting Kane to go, but Kane, looking torn between disgusted and amused, skated away. Patrick hollered after him like a baboon. Matt was pretty sure that was going to be all over the highlight reels tomorrow.

When the final seconds finally wound down, Matt grabbed Patrick and dragged him to the side. “What do you think you’re _doing_ out there?”

Patrick was almost bouncing up and down. “It is like I am drive a Ferrari!” he exulted. “You are amazing!”

Matt flushed, just a little flattered. “Okay, but look, your stick-handling could use some work, and you _really_ need to keep your head up! You are not paying attention. Plus, in case you didn’t know, you are not a fucking tank, okay? You keep bouncing off these guys like you’re playing pinball and one of them is gonna get pissed off and _level_ you! I appreciate the spirit of the thing, but you’re being stupid.”

Patrick calmed down. “Okay, you are right. I am a valuable asset. Er, or you are a valuable asset. It _is_ dumb to provoke guys that way. I will watch that.”

Matt let out a sigh. It was probably the best he could hope for. He waved Patrick into the locker room and was surprised to hear a burst of applause.

“Wow, Dutchy, you are really fucking on tonight!” Ginner said, sounding deeply awed.

“Did you see him go at Kane?”

“Fuck Kane; did you see him hit Seabrook?” Matt winced. He’d bounced off the guy like he was trying to hip check a semi. Seabrook had not responded. There was a chance he hadn’t even noticed. “Dude is _not backing down from anything_ tonight!” E.J. crowed.

“Yeah, what’s up, Dutchy? When did you decide you had superpowers?”

Matt slid into the locker room and stared at the guys in amazement. They were pleased! That idiot was out there doing his best to get himself killed, and they were impressed! Worse, with every word, that little shithead was puffing up bigger, his ego filled to bursting. Patrick stood there, hands on his hips, looking around the room like a king surveying his country. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye.

Matt opened his mouth, but Patrick beat him to the punch.

“Listen up! Look, this is game seven. We win this, we go on, face the Ducks. We have not won conference quarterfinal since 2008. Do you think that is acceptable?” Everyone was looking at Patrick like he’d grown another head. “I don’t! I think we are better than that! I think we are capable of win against this team.” With every word, Patrick’s thick Quebecois accent was dripping back into his speech like maple syrup. Matt grimaced, feeling his whole body tense up. The guys were definitely going to notice! “I don’t have doubt about your talent. I have doubt about what you do with it. I want to see more than skill. Me, I go out there and fucking split my own _ass_ into four part just for you. What you give me in return? Eh? I want to see you step it up. I give what I got. One hundred percent, all out. You willing to do the same? Come on!”

For just a second, the locker room was filled with stunned silence.

Then E.J. began to laugh, clapping his hands together. “Fucking hell! That was the best Patrick Roy impression I ever fucking heard!”

Matt’s jaw dropped. Then he noticed everyone was looking nervously at him, and he realized they were waiting to see if he took offense. He forced himself to smile, feeling self-conscious. “I’d do my Matt Duchene impression, but it would just be a lot of ‘O Canada’ with Sidney Crosby name substitute for the actual words,” he mumbled, trying to sound as French as possible. Everyone seemed to exhale and the rest of the guys joined in the laughter. There was a round of applause.

The tension seemed to break, and a bunch of guys crowded around Patrick, slapping him on the back and punching him lightly in the arm. “Holy shit, that was amazing,” Nate MacKinnon said.

Patrick smiled—rather less than humbly—Matt thought, and Matt gave him a warning look. Patrick promptly ducked his head, looking much more Duchene-eseque.

Matt shook his head and sighed. One more period.

 

oOoOoOo

Toews had a good look at the net about four minutes in, but Varly made the save, and after that, the Avs were on fire. Patrick Roy had rallied his troops.

All the same, their energy and hard work had not converted. The seconds ticked down. Matt reflected that after this was all over, he was going to go home and drink an entire bottle of antacid. He’d never felt this tense in his life.

Then Patrick went into the corner. He got tangled up with another player, and Matt could see them both jabbing frantically at the ice, trying to win the puck and fend off the other guy’s stick. Patrick was so intent on the battle that his head was down, his focus narrowed. An uneasy feeling grew in Matt’s stomach. “HEAD UP!” he yelled, but it was too late—Carcillo had hit him hard and high and Patrick went down.

Matt’s heart nearly leapt out of his throat. There were too many players around for him to see what was happening, but then he saw Patrick get up. Thank God. _Stupid, stubborn jackass_ , he thought, heart racing. There was a whistle, and the official gave Carcillo a high-sticking penalty, which Matt would take although from his view it didn’t really look like it.

When Patrick got back to the bench, Matt erupted. “You fucking _watch it_ out there!” he snarled. “Keep your damn head up!”

“Don’t yell at me!” Patrick snapped right back, forgetting himself.

“Whoa, whoa, come on,” Gabe interrupted. He tugged Patrick’s jersey. “Cool it, okay?” He patted the guy’s arm. “Just chill,” Matt could hear him saying in an undertone. “I know you’re pissed, but he’s looking out for you. Deep breaths.” He seemed to get Patrick calmed down and then managed a smile at Matt. “He certainly didn’t mean it, he’s just shaken up. Don’t get too pissed, all right? We need him out there. Okay? We really need him, so can you just let that one go?”

Matt felt his lips twitch. That was Gabe, all right, the consummate peacekeeper. For a moment he had to savour the pure dedicated protectiveness of his captain. Gabe, a guy who never backed down for anything, was willing to stand up to Roy for him. He was fucking touched, actually. That was the kind of team they were. But then he had to get himself together quick—they had a power play to capitalize on. “It’s fine,” he assured Gabe, and whistled the line change.

Gabe and O’Reilly got nothing done. Tangs and Iggy had a couple of looks, but Crawford stoned them. “Put Cody out,” Patrick ordered.

Matt had misgivings. He loved Cody; he was a stand-up guy. But he wasn’t a finesse player and he had no speed. “I dunno.” He was hesitant to waste such a good opportunity. You don’t throw out your fourth line tough guy on a power play that could be the deciding factor in whether your team made the next round of the playoffs.

“ _Now,_ ” Patrick told him in a clipped voice.

Matt rolled his eyes and sent the big enforcer out.

McLeod shoved Oduya off the puck at the blueline and bullied his way down the ice. Matt watched in surprise as the McLeod managed to bang the puck in after a couple of tries. It wasn’t a pretty shot—it was a real grinding goal—but it got the job done.

Matt noticed Patrick was smirking—another thing that Matt Duchene’s face didn’t usually do. “He got heart,” Patrick explained. “I could tell he was hungry. Sometimes you can feel it. You got to pay attention to how a player is carry himself. Sometime you take a chance. A guy like that, he will want to prove it to you.” Matt smiled.

Five minutes left in regulation. Could they keep the lead?

Wave after wave of Avs went out, playing as defensively as they could, but really, it was down to Varly. Hossa caught Stuart out of position, but Varly made the glove save. Toews almost had a chance, but Landy made a nice backcheck and popped the puck loose for Ryan to clear. One minute left. Patrick begged for a chance to go out there.

The guys were getting tired. Matt nodded, hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake.

The problem was that they just couldn’t keep the puck. They were a great offensive team, even against the mighty Blackhawks, but apart from O’Reilly, they didn’t have any really good two-way players. Again and again, the Hawks got the puck. Again and again, Varly had to come up big.

The Blackhawks swarmed around the net like angry wasps determined to invade a beehive. Kane almost capitalized, flying in and trying to beat Varly five-hole. This didn’t work and the rebound was scooped up by Toews, who attempted to go top shelf. Varly snagged the puck out of the air, sat down hard, and lost the puck. By now everything was a mad scramble. There were a lot of Hawks down low and somehow Varly fell back, into the net, but the puck was still loose.

Toews found the puck and threw it back to his teammate—Kane. _Patrick Kane._ He was right there, larger than life, his stick drawing back like a spring coiling. Matt felt his blood run cold. Everything seemed to slow down. Matt had time to look from Kane to the goal—where Varly was still stuck in the net, struggling to get out. He had time to look at Patrick’s face—no, _his_ face, his wide eyes that suddenly went narrow in a way Matt Duchene would never imitate.

He saw Patrick _dive,_ leaping, stretching, hand reaching out.

He saw the puck hit his own hand, _hard,_ saw Patrick wince. Right in the middle of his fucking palm. Matt was dazed. Then time snapped back like a rubber band, thrusting them all forward.

Varly was way back in the net—his skate seemed to be caught in the netting. The Hawks sure didn’t give a fuck, and no one else could drag their eyes from Patrick.

A shot from the blueline, and Patrick kicked out hard. Somehow, the puck hit the blade of his skate. It skittered around, and several Hawks’ sticks darted out to jab at it, but they couldn’t get it past Patrick’s leg, which shot out at the last second.

Hossa got the puck and looked for an opportunity. He circled around the goal. Patrick managed to get to his knees just as the man flung it at the net. It hit Patrick square in the chest and fell to the ice.

The buzzer sounded.

“HOLY SMOKES!” Matt shouted at the top of his lungs. “WHATTA SAVE!”

Everything seemed to freeze for a moment. Then Patrick looked up, slowly, his eyes very wide.

Patrick got up, gained his feet slowly, battered and clearly sore. Everyone was staring at him. Even his own teammates were too shocked to celebrate or ask questions. They just gaped.

Patrick’s grin grew as wide as a city block. He raised a fist to the sky. It took Matt a moment to realize that, in that fist, was the puck.

The bench went wild, and the Can followed suit. Patrick tried to take a step and almost fell. For a split second Matt’s chest clenched up tight; if he was injured, the chances they’d be able to go all the way were a lot slimmer. Then O’Reilly grabbed him, and Patrick slung an arm around his shoulder, and Nate did the same on the other side, and they hoisted him up. Matt had a better view, and realized Patrick’s blade was missing. Seabrook’s shot from the blueline had knocked it clean off. The guys carried a beaming, laughing Patrick around a little bit before having to put him down. Matt had to grin. He’d seen it happen before—when Patrick had broken Sawchuck’s record—but it was crazy to see his own body that way. He hoped he would earn the same honor someday.

They guys gathered around each other, hugging hard in a big huddle, then broke apart to salute the crowd.

For the first time in six years, the Avs would move on to the next round.

 

oOoOoOo

“How did you feel out there, Matt?” Julie asked. Matt hovered nearby, throat tight.

“Good,” Patrick said shortly.

Julie laughed. “You just made the save of the game. I guess that would feel good. Can you tell us about that?”

Patrick shrugged. “It just . . . happened,” he said. Matt could tell he was struggling hard to sound like your average Ontario dude, but it didn’t come naturally.

“Well, the crowd loved it. I know it’s just good to get a win, but it has to feel even better doing it with that kind of flair.”

Patrick blinked as the microphone was shoved back in his face. “Yeah. Uh. Whatta game! I am happy for the fans. They deserve it. As much as we do.” He clamped his mouth shut again and smiled tightly.

“Okay, I’ll let you get back to your celebration, but just one more question,” the commentator said. “I know you played goaltender a little bit as a kid, but _how_ on _earth_ did you manage to make that last save?”

Patrick smiled broadly. “Oh, the one in the chest? That one was easy,” he said. “Anyone could do it.”

Julie looked delighted. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “You just got to get on your knee—and pray.” Then he winked.

Matt could almost hear the shrieks of pleasure from every available media outlet. Oh, Jesus. Vintage Roy, but seriously too clever to be Matt Duchene.

Julie’s laugh was a trill of appreciation. “Thanks for your time, Matt.”

Patrick sidled off camera. “You couldn’t hold it in?” Matt asked in an undertone.

Patrick only beamed at him. “Not for one more minute.”

 

oOoOoOo

“I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it,” Matt repeated over and over as they drove home after the game. Patrick was bruised up, but his spirits were high. The doctors said he had some bruised ribs but Patrick said it wasn’t that bad. “That was a fucking thing of beauty.”

Patrick laughed. “I am glad you approve,” he purred. Matt had rarely seen him look quite this self-satisfied.

“Wow. Whatta save,” Matt breathed, still replaying the whole thing in his head.

“Easiest part of the night for me,” Patrick said. Then he shifted in his seat and winced. “Well, maybe not. Still easier than playing forward.”

“Oh, you think?” Matt said sarcastically.

Patrick laughed. “I use to think forward was easy. You just shoot! Easier than goaltender, anyway. Now I know better.” He sighed. “I was wrong.”

“Wait, wait; can I get Mike Chambers on the line so you can repeat that? I want a witness. I want to see it in print,” Matt told him.

“You are very funny. But if you need to hear it; I am sorry.” Matt gaped at the man. “I learn other things, too,” Patrick told him. He looked very serious. “I underestimate you. Maybe I did go too far to protect you on the knee.”

“Maybe,” Matt allowed. “Or maybe the witch’s brew really did make me good enough to play. It doesn’t matter now.” His knee really did seem a lot better.

“It does. It is important to me to give your word more weight in the future,” Patrick informed him humbly.

Matt smiled. “I learned some stuff too. Your job is hard—a lot harder than I thought. You have a lot going on, you know?”

Patrick shrugged. “It become easier with experience,” he said.

“I also learned that I’m tougher than I give myself credit for. You did things tonight that I’d never _dream_ of doing, and not just because I’d get hurt. You pushed me to my absolute limits out there. If you could do that, then I’m capable of much more.”

“Well, don’t do anything stupid,” Patrick cautioned.

Matt laughed. “Like taking a Kane shot to the hand from the blue line? . . . But seriously,” he added, “you may have made all those saves, but you did it in my body. If you can move like that, then I can, too.”

“Don’t kid yourself. That was many, many year of goaltending in a fresh young body, a perfect join of mind and muscle. You will not see that again I think, not ever, because by the time you get that kind of muscle memory, that experience, your body cannot do those thing.” Patrick was being perfectly frank and not speaking in a bragging voice at all. “Thank you for that,” he added. “That was . . . that was something special. You let me come back and give the Avs one last big save, and this time, I will go out on a high note, much more than the last time I retire.”

Matt smiled. “Thank you, too. You got the Avs into the western conference final. That’s pretty special. Maybe only you could have done that.”

“Nah. If you had play tonight, you play your way, maybe you get three goal,” Patrick pointed out. “A different skillset, but not a worse one. I did not get you anything except a chance. The next big step, you will have to take yourself, and in a pretty beat up vehicle, I am sorry to say.”

Matt grinned. “I can handle it. You showed me that.”

Patrick grinned back at him. “We make a pretty good team.”

“You can say that again.” Matt pulled into the driveway. “Well, at least you have a couple of days off to rest.”

“Yes, or you do. Me, I have a couple of day to get used to my new diet,” Patrick told him as they opened the car doors and trudged up to the front porch and opened the door.

Matt flicked the lights on, took off his jacket and hung it in the closet. “So, what do you want to do now?” he asked cheekily.

Patrick grinned. “I would like to see what more this fine young body can do,” he said.

Matt flicked the lights back off. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

oOoOoOo

When Matt woke several hours later, he felt even worse than he had that morning. “Oh, God, I hurt _all over_ ,” he groaned.

Patrick shifted beside him. “I am sorry. Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“You think a kiss is going to make up for what you put me through the last twenty-four hours?” Matt sat up, rubbing his eyes. The LED numbers on the clock read 5:00; at least he could sleep another couple of hours.

“What more you want?”

“I dunno, maybe a new boat?”

“You got it.”

“I should have asked for something more expensive!”  


“Name it,” Patrick said, and tugged him down into a kiss. “You really did not like my beard?” he asked, rubbing his chin.

Matt smiled. “After a while, it grew on me.” Patrick kissed him again. “You’re not really going to buy me a boat, are you?” Matt asked suspiciously. Patrick kissed him again. “Patrick, do _not_ buy me a boat. It was a joke.” Patrick refused to answer, and Matt knew, just _knew_ , that there would be a brand new Chris-Craft in the driveway sometime in the next week or so—or possibly even by tomorrow morning. He sighed. He should have known better than to make a quip about it; he knew Patrick really did feel bad about getting him all bruised up, and he knew that Patrick loved to spoil him. “Look, stop kissing on me. I need to use the bathroom.” Finally, Patrick let him up.

“You know,” the man said with a yawn, “for all it fault and failing, I am glad to have my own body back. I promise I will take better care of it.”

“Good, because I plan on using it a lot in the future,” Matt retorted. He struggled out from under the covers and lumbered into the bathroom. God, it was fucking nice to see his own ugly mug in the mirror! He grinned, patting his face. “It’s good see you,” he told his reflection. “Thanks. It’s good to be home,” he answered himself with a goofy grin.

“Are you talk to yourself in there!?” Patrick called. “Maybe you are not _all_ back in your right head, yet.”

“Ha, ha,” Matt replied. He looked at his hand. Under the bright bathroom light he could see the bruise forming. On impulse, he lifted up his shirt. There, too, was a bruise, right in the middle of his chest. It was going to be a real beauty. “Oh, Patrick,” he sighed. “Thanks for leaving your mark.”

He pulled down his boxers and went to pee—and stared.

There, written in fucking permanent marker, were the words, _PROPERTY OF PATRICK ROY._

“WHAT THE HELL, PATRICK?” he shouted. “DID THE OTHER GUYS NOTICE THIS IN THE LOCKER ROOM?”

“How many guys you got looking at your dick?” Patrick shot back.

“When the fuck did you write on my dick, anyway!?” Matt grabbed the soap. This didn’t help. The writing wouldn’t come off anytime soon, whatever he did. “Was it that time you disappeared into the bathroom and came out looking weirdly proud of yourself? It was, wasn’t it!? How did you even manage to . . .” he trailed off as realization dawned. “WERE YOU VIOLATING MY BODY, YOU OLD PERVERT?”

“Don’t act like I molest you. You loved every minute, I can tell you that. Anyway, my autograph is very collectable. You just take that to a auction house, see what they say.”

“Fucking dork.” Matt was flushed. He had barely been able to _look_ at Patrick’s dick, let alone feel he had the right to mess around with it. If he’d known Patty would be so blasé about the whole idea, he would have had more fun with the whole thing. “I’m gonna kill you! No! Better yet! You come over here and let me write on _you,_ you crazy old goaltender!”

He heard Patrick giggling in the other room. Some people grew older, but they sure didn’t grow up. “First you will have to catch me!”

Matt looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head, sighing. At least things were back to normal, for a given value of normal, anyway. Some people probably thought having your world class goaltender boyfriend’s autograph on your dick was strange, but Matt thought that was all a matter of your point of view.

“Fine! Since you’re old, I’ll give you a ten minute head start!” he called back. Then he went to find a marker.


End file.
